He was right, Rathe knew, but the expression on Herisse’s face was too much for him. The wagon wasn’t moving very fast, barely at a walk, and he brought his horse alongside, matching the pace easily.

“Here,” he said, and held out his arm. She scrambled over the wagon’s side, skirt hiked awkwardly, and he caught her around the waist, dragging her half across his saddlebow. She clung to him, and he swung the horse in the same moment, depositing her gracelessly but unbruised at Mailet’s feet. The big man grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her into a rough embrace, and then Trijntje called her name, and the two girls hung sobbing and laughing in each other’s arms. Mailet shook his head, his own expression fond, and looked up at Rathe.

“I’m in your debt, Adjunct Point.”

Rathe shook his head. “It’s my job, Master Mailet–”

“And I’m still in your debt,” Mailet answered, the choler already returning to his face, chin and lower lip jutting dangerously. “I insist.”

Rathe laughed then, suddenly, and for the first time in weeks, genuinely happy. “Have it your way, master,” he said, and nudged his horse forward.

At his side, Eslingen laughed, too. “You can’t seem to get on with that one, Nico.”

Rathe grinned. “I’d like to see his stars,” he began, and saw a hand wave from the crowd. Devynck stood there, Adriana at her side, and he looked back to see Eslingen’s smile widen to delight.

“Adriana, Sergeant,” he called, and swung down off his horse, looping the rein over his wrist.

“You’ll miss the celebration at the Pantheon,” Rathe said, and the other man looked up at him.

“Oh, that’s for Coindarel, you know that. Besides, I’ve been wanting to see them again.” He started toward the two women without waiting for an answer, tugging the horse along with him.

Rathe shook his head–Eslingen was right, of course, the prince‑marshal would take the credit, or, more precisely, would be given most of the credit, but he couldn’t bring himself to care too deeply.

“Nico?” It was Asheri’s voice, from the second wagon, and Rathe turned, brought his horse alongside her.

“Yes? I haven’t seen Mijan yet, if that’s what you wanted.”

“And you won’t, either,” Asheri answered. “She’d never come to something like this, she’s too sure the worst will have happened.”

She sounded impatient, if anything, but Rathe remembered the tears in Mijan’s eyes, the bitter answer to all her own and her sister’s dreams. We never have any luck, she had said, I should have known. As if she’d guessed the thought, Asheri’s face seemed to crumple.

“Take me home, Nico, please?”

Rathe nodded. “I’ll take you home,” he said, and held out his hand so she could scramble across.

Once they were free of the crowd, the streets were almost empty. It didn’t take long to reach the Hopes‑point Bridge. Asheri shifted against his back, muttered something, muffled by the cloth of his coat.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t think it’s fair,” Asheri said, and Rathe frowned.

“What’s not, love?” He could hear bells chiming, and could smell a sudden sweet drift of incense from a household shrine.

“The prince‑marshal getting all the credit. He sweeps in at the last minute, like a hero out of some really improbable romance, he doesn’t even do any of the work, not like you did, Nico, and the others–and the whole city thinks he’s the hero.”

“Well, but he is,” Rathe said, striving for a light tone. “By definition. Prince‑marshals are always the heroes.”

“I think,” she said seriously, “we need some new stories, then.”

Rathe shook his head. “Probably, but don’t fret about it on my account, Ash. People know. They know it was the four of us, and that’s fine. We’re none of us heroes, nor would want to be. Except maybe Philip,” he added, and was glad to surprise a gurgle of laughter from her.

“He does come the gentleman, doesn’t he?” She sobered again. “But it’s still not fair.”

“I meant what I told Mailet,” Rathe said, and realized that he did. “It’s my job.”

“Then you don’t get paid enough,” Asheri muttered.

They turned off Clock Street at last, and threaded their way through the narrow streets to the cul‑de‑sac where Mijan’s house stood. The square around the well‑house was empty, not even the sound of a child drifting from the surrounding houses, but Mijan herself was working in the little garden outside her front door, her back stubbornly to the road from the city. Another woman–a neighbor? Rathe wondered–was standing with her, hands twisted in her mended apron. She looked up sharply at the sound of hoofbeats, though Mijan did not move, and then reached down to touch the other woman’s shoulder. Mijan hunched her back, and didn’t move. Rathe reined his horse to a stop–and he would have to return it to Caiazzo soon, he thought, or pay for stabling–and Asheri slid down from the saddle.

“Mijan?”

Mijan turned at the sound of her voice, scowling, and pushed herself up from the dry dirt. “How could you–?” she began, and Asheri’s voice rose in what sounded like a habitual response.

“Don’t scold, Mijan, I’m fine!”

Mijan shook her head, but Rathe could see the tears on her cheeks. She opened her arms then, and Asheri stepped into their shelter, into Mijan’s fierce embrace, burying her head against her sister’s chest. Mijan rested her chin on the girl’s head. “Oh, Asheri,” she said, and looked at Rathe. “I–thank you, Rathe. I thought sure–” She broke off again, and the other woman took a step forward.

“I said she’d be with the others,” she said. She had an easy, comfortable voice, and an easy smile. “And I said you should have supper waiting.”

Mijan loosened her hold on the girl, her mouth pulling down into her ready scowl. “I wasn’t going to spend good coin on something that might not happen.”

“Then it’s a good thing I did,” the other woman said. “Come along, Mijan, you’re in no shape to cook–you shouldn’t have to cook, either one of you, not after all this, and I’ve got supper on the stove, a whole chicken.” She looked at Rathe, including him in her smile. “You should join us, Master Rathe–you’ll not get better, though I say it who shouldn’t.”

Rathe returned her smile, but shook his head. “I have to report to Point of Hopes,” he said, and backed the horse away.

“I’ll be in tomorrow for work,” Asheri called after him, and he saw Mijan’s mouth tighten in an old disapproval. She said nothing, however, and Rathe lifted his hand in answer, kicking the horse into a slow trot.

The streets were getting more crowded as he made his way back toward Point of Hopes with people coming back from the Horsegate Road who hadn’t bothered to go on to the Pantheon. A fair number carried pitchers of wine and beer, but they were happy drunks, and Rathe couldn’t quite bring himself to care. At Point of Hopes itself, the portcullis was open, and the courtyard was crowded, pointsmen and women for once mingling amicably with people from the surrounding houses. Someone had brought a hogshead into the yard, and the air smelled of spilled beer. Houssaye saw him first, and came to catch the horse’s bridle.

“Nico! You’re back, and well.” His eyes darted to the gate, and back again. “Asheri?”

“With her sister,” Rathe answered, and swung down off the horse at last. “I brought her there myself.”

“Thank Astree and all the gods,” Houssaye said. “I’ll take care of the beast.”

“Thanks,” Rathe answered. He could see Monteia standing in the station’s doorway, a mug of beer in her hand, and lifted his own hand in greeting.

She waved back, and beckoned him over. “Welcome back, Nico– a job well done, by all accounts.”

Rathe blinked, startled, and Eslingen looked over the chief point’s shoulder. “Aagte asked me to see the beer delivered–that’s her gift, sort of an apology for thinking ill of the chief point here, I think.”